Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  ‘I really don’t understand how you could send Emma down there on her own. She’s far too young and inexperienced for that kind of work; you should have sent someone more senior, someone with a bit of … well … nous … someone who could make a proper appraisal.’

  ‘Like who?’ Paul’s anger surfaces. ‘Associated Composites are minor fare when compared with the main WOS businesses and didn’t we both go there ourselves to check it out? It was her or nobody; we’re short-staffed and over-worked. Taking on all this WOS work without dropping any of our lesser clients was a mistake. You insisted we could cope, now look at us.’

  My initial surprise at this outburst subsides to reveal feelings of deep uncertainty. What Paul says is right, I have bitten off more than I can possibly chew. No matter how many hours I put in, the mountain of work lies undiminished. Weariness seeps up from my legs and encases my entire body. My brain ceases to function; I no longer have the power of speech. The half formed barbs of verbal riposte stick in my throat. My breath expels suddenly and I realise that this too has been frozen. I fill my lungs with the next inhalation, allow the breath deep into my diaphragm and feel my power returning.

  ‘Just ask her to come in here,’ I let out a sigh, ‘then you’d better get on with your work.’

  Now that he’s left me alone in my office I feel the panic returning and struggle to breathe it away. Darkness is descending on Manchester, a sickly yellow glow replacing the grey light. It all seems such an effort and sadly doomed to failure and ignominy. I have no idea why Eric had such faith in me but I know what his reaction will be when he discovers what a terrible mess I’m making of Martin’s job.

  Emma bounces in, bright, energetic and filled with enthusiasm. My own dim candle begins to glow more vigorously in her presence.

  ‘You wanted me?’ She stands expectantly.

  ‘Yes, Emma, sit down. You’ve been to Brackley, I believe, to Associated Composites. Tell me about your visit.’

  ‘Oh!’ Emma seems surprised as she seats herself gracefully. ‘Did Paul tell you, he said he wouldn’t, that it was best not to. Things like that are quite normal, he said. Forget it, he said.’

  ‘Forget what?’ I’m intrigued now but have no inclination to play cat and mouse. Emma looks puzzled. ‘Tell me.’ I speak firmly. ‘Never mind about Paul, tell me what happened down in Brackley.’

  She hesitates for a moment. ‘He said it wasn’t important.’ Her voice is thin and plaintive. I can feel her nervousness.

  ‘It may not be,’ I adopt a lighter tone, ‘in fact I’m sure it’s not if Paul says so. Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, you’ve not let me down.’

  I stand up, walk around the desk and place my hands gently on her shoulders until I feel her energy return. I sit in the other visitor’s chair, side by side with her.

  ‘Well,’ she says, shrugging off her nervousness, ‘I didn’t like them, you know, the people down there. There was this man, Sullivan, who was rude and unfeeling. He kept saying he had no time for all this poking about, that he was fed up of Landers Hoffman. He kept asking if you’d sent me, if you knew I was there.’

  I can see this may take some time, Emma is warming to her account and her initial shock has given way to her love of a good story.

  ‘Carry on,’ I instruct as I get up and boil the kettle, make some tea for both of us. Camomile seems most appropriate under the circumstances.

  ‘He was a horrible man, I didn’t like him. He would look at me in a really leery way. Do you know what I mean? It was like he was imagining doing rude things to me – not very nice at all. He seemed the sort of man that would go to strip clubs and lap dancing places, you know the sort I mean. I felt really uncomfortable whenever he was there.’

  I put her tea down on the desk and sit back beside her. ‘Yes, I met him. He gave me a creepy feeling as well. Did you spend much time with him?’

  ‘Oh no, he shouted at me a bit at first and then he went away. The Irishman, the accountant, was a bit nicer, but he had a vacant look, you know like he was never actually in the room. He was like a … a robot, that’s it, an auto … automatic thing, you know like in the Stepford Wives, only a man of course, I didn’t like him.’

  I look at the clock on my bookcase and feel the darkness closing in. At this rate we could be here all night. When Paul was here I could feel the weariness from ten hours in the office, but now Emma’s energy is keeping me going. The tightness in my abdomen is eased now.

  ‘There was this nice girl, Mariella,’ Emma continues. ‘They put her with me so she could find stuff for me. She was nice. She came from Holland but moved to England with her boyfriend who works for Composites. You would never believe it but she’s got two guinea pigs like me. They they aren’t brothers like mine; she got one at first and then the little one to keep the other one company. I showed her a picture of my cage and she was amazed. She absolutely loved it and really, really wanted to make one like it.’

  ‘Emma,’ I interrupt gently, ‘I need you to get to the accountancy bit now, what did you find out, were there any problems?’

  She colours up with embarrassment. I feel compelled to add, ‘Look, I love the things you’re telling me, they’re brilliant and really interesting, I could listen to you all night, you’re great to be with, but it’s 5 o’clock already and you’ll need to be going home soon, won’t you?’

  She brightens up and takes a breath. ‘Oh, yes, thanks. Well I suppose it started when I asked Mariella about some transactions with an Italian company.’

  I’m beginning to wonder whether there is any point to all this. Perhaps Paul is right, perhaps Emma shouldn’t be bothering me with this. ‘Well there’s this thing. This Italian company is paying over four million euros for things supplied by Associated Composites and they’re not even a defence contractor, they’re a racing team – a motor racing team, based in San Marino which is in Italy, I think.’ Emma breathes out heavily.

  I suddenly become nervous. I get an uneasy feeling that the £20,000 Casagrande gave me might somehow be involved in what Emma is about to say.

  ‘And,’ Emma pauses again, ‘I only found out what they did from Mariella. She told me her boyfriend was a racing driver and a famous one, though I’d never heard of him. Ben is quite keen on watching the Formula 1 on television but I don’t take much notice, but anyway, Dirk – that’s the name of Mariella’s boyfriend – drives sports cars which are different.’

  ‘But I thought you said he worked at Associated Composites?’

  ‘He does, Mariella explained it to me. Associated Composites are his sponsors; they pay for him to drive, they pay money to Crugnolla Racing who are in England. They’re on the same industrial estate as Composites, almost next door.’

  ‘How much? How much are Composites paying Crugnolla? Is it in the accounts?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s all there, all recorded. They paid nearly two million pounds last year. I thought you ought to know about that. Don’t you think it’s a bit weird? I mean they get paid oodles of money for supplying bits for racing cars then pay millions of euros back to the team. Why? That’s not a normal transaction is it? Shouldn’t we be asking questions about that sort of thing?’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I told Paul when I got back. He said not to worry. I said that you should be told all about it. He said it wasn’t important enough to bother you with.’

  It’s late, I’m tired, but all I want to do is to get hold of Paul and shake the truth out of him.

  ‘Thanks, Emma. I’ll have a chat with Paul tomorrow. I’m sure he’s right, but thanks for your excellent work, I’m proud of you.’

  She beams back at me. All her cares have lifted and she bounces out of the office leaving me with the lasting impression of her big smile and beautiful wide eyes.

  20

  I am tired, footsore and my legs are cold and wet. These thin tights are no match for the horizontal drizzle that assails me in the half light. As I stagger ungracefully into t
he building I am observed by Ian, the night security man and Gary, who I have always assumed to be his boss.

  ‘Morning,’ Gary chirps joyfully. ‘Bright and early aren’t we?’

  I can do without that kind of meaningless remark at the best of times, but coupled with my state of agitation it makes me want to scream out loud. After an almost sleepless night, catching the early train was easy, although I had to leave before Toby woke up. I mean to nab Paul immediately he arrives and confront him with the Emma revelations.

  I look across at Gary who is still grinning and waiting for a return of pleasantries. He is a short, thickset individual with close-cropped hair and a round happy face. At first sight, his bulk might be taken to be that of someone who has a tendency to consume too many burgers and fries for his own good, but that is definitely not the case. Gary has no beer belly, only a barrel of a chest and muscular arms that can hardly be contained by his shirt sleeves.

  The sight of his obvious pleasure at seeing me manages to slightly lift my gloom and I walk over to him.

  ‘Needs must, Gary,’ I reply, wrinkling my nose to indicate that I don’t much like it. ‘I’ve lots on at the moment. How about you, are you busy?’

  ‘Always busy, always grafting, Mrs Parker.’ He stares at me with piercing blue eyes. ‘You look tired, Mrs Parker, you look like you’re overdoing it if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  His concern touches me deeply and I suddenly feel soft and vulnerable and struggle to hold back my tears. He’s right, I am completely spent and the only kind words and support I get are coming from a security guard. This realisation crumples my spirit and robs me of any resolve. Strong hands reach out to steady my shoulders and Gary propels me gently into the chair behind the reception desk. My legs have ceased to function and all I can think about is lying down and crying myself to sleep.

  ‘Get her a nice cup of tea,’ Gary orders the tall thin youth. ‘Sit yourself down and take a breather, Mrs Parker, a few deep breaths, come on, breathe in … all the way … that’s good. Now out slowly … slowly, let it all out. Now gently in, that’s the ticket, you’ll be fine. Too much work, that’s your problem – when did you last take a holiday?’

  I sit numb and unresponsive. The last holiday with Tim and Toby was much more stressful than working: Spain – sun, sea, sangria and same bed as Tim; nightly sexual mithering, recriminations, arguments, accusations, sulking, anger and frustration. I look at Gary, his face shows gentle concern and I feel a deep longing to be held and made to feel safe.

  Ian returns with a Landers Hoffman mug and puts it down on the desk in front of me. I prefer my tea strong and dark brown with only a tiny splash of milk and no sugar. This is weak, almost white. It’s also very sweet, but I drink it with gratitude and relish.

  A small trickle of people begins to seep through the entrance and I need to prepare for my confrontation with Paul. The tea and Gary’s kindness are restoring the function to my legs, although as I stand I still feel a little shaky.

  ‘Thanks, Gary.’ I look at his unremarkable features and feel a huge ocean of calm energy underneath.

  ‘Any time, Mrs Parker, glad to be of help. Now you get some serious vacation time and do it soon, you can’t carry on like this.’

  There is a truth in his words that reaches deep inside me. He’s right. I’m heading for a breakdown the way my life is. Once the WOS audit is sorted out I’ll do something about it. I’ll leave Tim or better still kick him out. I’ll stop putting it off because I’m busy; stop all the excuses about Toby needing his dad. I’ll get back to being a proper mother for Toby. The thought of how my recent neglect has made my poor baby suffer makes my stomach tighten and hurt. How could I have been so selfish?

  These painful thoughts are dispelled by the sight of Paul and I call him into my office.

  ‘Can I get myself a brew first?’ he asks.

  ‘No, it won’t take long,’ I lie. ‘I only need to check something out with you quickly before I start my day.’

  He comes in and sits down.

  ‘Why did you keep important information from me?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m talking about the things that Emma told you after her visit to Associated Composites.’

  ‘There was nothing to tell, it was a routine audit visit.’

  ‘Hardly routine. There are huge sums of money being paid by a motor racing team from San Marino with no obvious justification. She also told me about large amounts being paid back by Associated Composites to Crugnolla’s UK company. Didn’t you think I should be told?’

  ‘I checked it out myself and everything is fine.’ Paul remains calm and shows no sign of discomfiture even in the face of my rather tetchy opening.

  ‘Did you ask Sullivan about this, then?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yes, he assures me it’s quite normal. It’s all to do with marketing and promotion; Crugnolla are very important clients and the motor racing industry is a big purchaser of Associated Composites’ specialist products.’

  ‘Did you ask him what could possibly cost four million euros? I would have thought you could buy a whole fleet of racing cars for much less than that.’

  ‘Sullivan explained that Composites supply a unique exhaust system based on advanced ceramic technology. They developed it originally for jet fighters; apparently all the serious racing cars use it, especially the Formula 1 cars. He’s very proud of it.’

  I’m beginning to feel relieved at what appears to be an entirely plausible explanation. I desperately need to sign off the audit; maybe I can take Paul’s assurances and get the job done.

  ‘Yes, but so much money?’

  ‘Crugnolla are distributors; they sell on to all the other teams. Composites just supply the parts. It’s a very profitable business,’ Paul explains.

  ‘Well, what about the money paid back to Crugnolla Racing, what’s that for exactly? Sounds like a ridiculous amount of money for a bit of advertising.’

  ‘Not in motor racing terms. They fund the running of the whole team. It’s their way of showcasing their exhaust technology and it enables them to develop other kinds of things. Sullivan told me they’ve made some ceramic engines which are ultra-lightweight and efficient. Once they’re proven on the racing track, the automotive industry will buy them like hot cakes. It’s a huge business opportunity; think of the two million pounds as research and development if you like, that’s what it really is.’

  ‘That’s what Sullivan told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  Paul looks down at his knees.

  ‘Well, do you think we should trust his word?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paul looks up and his face and head redden. ‘He’s in charge, he’s the top man there – of course we have to take his word. What do you think we are … some campaigning do-gooders? He runs the business; it’s his call, not ours. The transactions are all recorded, itemised, explained. That’s all any auditor can expect.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Don’t make value judgements, Jenny, it’s not your job.’

  I’m surprised by his sudden show of vehemence and feel disorientated. This mild-mannered plodder is making an uncharacteristic stand. Pausing for a few breaths, I consider how I feel about all this. The answer my body gives is very clear: I am uneasy, not reassured; I feel panic, not calm; I sense fear, not security.

  ‘Well, I don’t believe either of you.’ I watch Paul deflate as I speak. ‘Sullivan is a liar and you’re a fool for being taken in by him.’

  ‘It’s not our job!’ His protests sound weak now.

  ‘It’s my job to sign off the audit. The way things are, I intend to ask for a full investigation of Associated Composites, and until it’s completed I won’t sign off.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’ Paul’s voice rises in frequency. ‘Think what it will do to us, all of us – Landers Hoffman will lose the account, WOS will fire us and make sure we never get another big account ever again. It’ll be a disaster. You can�
�t afford that, Jenny.’

  ‘Yes I can, I’ve got a few quid stashed away. I’m not totally dependent on this job, not like I used to be. Losing it is a chance I’m willing to take.’

  Paul sits, hands wringing, shoulders high. He looks around my office as if seeking inspiration.

  ‘Talk to Eric,’ he says. ‘Before you do anything rash, talk to Eric and see what he says.’

  The word rash makes me angry and I feel like screaming. Yet the sense of his words gradually seeps through and I agree.

  ‘Okay, get me all the Composites files, bring them in here. I’ll see Eric in the morning when he gets back from holiday.’

  21

  The terrible banging makes the whole house shudder. Loud shouting drags me awake. The clock says 5.45. I rush in to Toby who stands too bewildered even to cry. As I clasp him in my arms a man appears in the doorway, a huge man dressed completely in black.

  My screams scare Toby into his own versions. A woman’s face joins the man’s and I shout, ‘Get out of my house,’ and ‘Tim where are you?’ and ‘Leave us alone,’ and ‘Call the police, Tim, call the police.’

  ‘We are the police.’ The woman’s face is hard and unfeeling, framed in short black hair under a navy blue baseball cap. My fear subsides a little to be replaced with indignation and anger. All I can think is, ‘What has Tim done?’ My anger begins to deflect away from the police and towards Tim.

  The crashing sounds make sudden sense. I realise they were battering down our front door, but why? What could Tim possibly have done to justify them scaring an innocent woman and her child? The cold seeps through my thin pyjamas; I become conscious of my near-naked vulnerability.

  Toby is inconsolable. The black-clad intruders have shattered his trust and given a lie to my constant reassurances: if I can’t keep him safe in his own bedroom, he can never trust me again.

  Lights are being switched on everywhere and everything focuses into sharp reality. The woman policeman steps forward to take Toby and I cower back against his cot, shielding him from her grasp.